


With Bells On

by LelithSugar



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Fluff, Comedy, Domestic Fluff, Established Hartwin, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Slice of Life, Smut, Tinselwank 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-14 02:43:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12998091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LelithSugar/pseuds/LelithSugar
Summary: Harry and Eggsy don't quite see eye to eye on the topic of Christmas decorating.A little slice of slightly comic, entirely toothrotting domestic established Hartwin fluff plus… well, look at the tags, you can see where this is going.NOW WITH ART! Chapter two is a wonderful illustration by French-Unicorn.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Emphysematous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emphysematous/gifts).



> For those who aren't native cockney speakers, ‘with bells on’ is a superlative and expression of enthusiasm, as in “I'll be there with bells on”. Not to be confused with the expression of disbelief/scepticism “pull the other one, it's got bells on.” ...I may have just realised why nobody ever understands us.
> 
> My Tinselwank challenge entry for my darling Emphysematous, who took pity on me, aborted her initial suggestion of an 'It's a Wonderful Life' AU (before anyone thinks about it, NO) and wanted a bit of domestic bickering over Christmas decorating and the inevitale kissing and making up.
> 
> Set in the same version of the relationship as Equilibrium, which if you haven't read it places it in a sort of ambiguous post Secret Service but Harry is alive, not Golden Circle compliant so it should slot nicely into whatever headcanon works for you.

  
With Bells On

 

“Christmas decorations,” announces Harry, over breakfast, late November. Eggsy pauses, fork to mouth, and waits for the rest of Harry's brain to catch up with the non sequitur. “I suppose we'll need an artificial tree, with JB around, and in case your family come over…”

Eggsy nods, finishes his mouthful and swallows before speaking. Good god, he might actually be learning.

“Do you normally have a real one?”

“Truth be told, I've not decorated in… a good few years.” Harry doesn't try for a number. “There was little sense to it on my own. I doubt I've got anything worth putting up, and if I do I wouldnt have a clue where to start looking for it.”

Eggsy’s hand on his knee speaks of quiet understanding, without pity. “Well I ain't having that. I love Christmas.” He shoves a triangle of toast in his mouth and continues, so atleast harry can be sure he isn't dreaming. “Shall we go get some new bits and pieces Thursday?”

Thursday is usually the first day of their ‘weekend’, all things being equal and all necessary statuses being quo, so evidently he means them to make a day of it and Harry buries his well-practiced cynicism in a sudden flurry of wistful images: Eggsy laughing in out a cloud of cold air, his cheeks pink in the fairylit darkness of the evening streets; Eggsy blowing on hot chocolate or mulled wine to cool it down enough to drink; Eggsy somehow managing to look devastating in an old t-shirt he’s cannibalised into pyjamas for them to snuggle up and watch some of the horrendous rom-coms Harry’s always refused to. And so he agrees, just as he had every intention of when he brought up the topic in the first place:it’s that much more difficult to be martyred to your own bitterness when you are yourself hopelessly in love and there’s a gorgeous young man doing his level best to infect you with festive cheer.

And to have decorations… not scraps cobbled together from remnants but a collection of their own, or the foundations of one… that's just as lovely an image, in its own way.

***

Up until the second coffee after lunch, they didn’t look like making much progress or agreeing on a colour scheme at all. Harry’s suggestions had all been either too classy to be at all Christmassy or so unbelievably glitzy and camp Eggsy strongly suspected he might be taking the piss, but was too scared to call his bluff in case they fell into trying to one-up each other and really did end up with a white tree and pink sequinned birds of paradise everywhere.

Even in the face of that, Harry continually dismissed Eggsy’s choices as tacky and horrible. “It's Christmas Haz. It's supposed to be tacky and horrible.” And plenty of the styles the shops were suggesting, they both discounted: blues and whites were too cold. Gold and black was too much like company colours. Eggsy had poured out that purple reminded him of the time he'd made himself sick eating Quality Street at the exact same time Harry had announced it made him feel like he was in a Cadburys advert against his will. They'd looked at each other, stopped talking at the same time and burst out laughing with such exact accidental synchronicity that a nearby shop assistant squeaked an “aww!” at them before scuttling away. Harry had looked a bit offended; Eggsy wanted to snog him stupid right in the shop in front of everyone.

They'd been so relieved to arrive at red and gold - to complement the ubiquitous greens of trees and ivy - that enthusiasm had snuck up them quickly, like a fourth mulled wine. They'd gone way overboard and ended up coordinating their wrapping supplies, and something in the his-and-his -ness of it all had made Eggsy go all silly, holding Harry’s hand tight and snuggling into his shoulder all the way home, barely letting go of him even then.

“What do you want for Christmas, Harry?”

“Would it be horrifically corny of me to say just you?”

Eggsy can't help making a face of mild disgust.

“Yeah, it would, you sappy prick, and if you ain't careful I'll stick a bow on my knob and be done with it.”

Harry scoffs. “Have some class. If you intend to gift me sexual favours I at least expect to need to do some unwrapping.”

There's a little heat in that, like he's thought about it. That'll be happening then, even though he's going to find him a proper present too, so Eggsy gives some consideration to what Harry might most like to unwrap him out of.

Some sort of stupidly tacky costume? Yeah, maybe, if he plays it right. Harry would laugh at him, then he'd try to brush it off, but if Eggsy managed to pick something that actually looked good on him -however ridiculous - he'd blush and stare and, after an acceptable amount of time to make the most of eyeing the ensemble up, be all over him like gravy on roast turkey. With all the trimmings.

Maybe something lacy? Women's? Harry is a sucker for a guilty pleasure, for the things he wants to feel he's above wanting and it'll be worth feeling like a proper twat if Eggsy can style it out enough to drop trow in stockings and knickers and a smile. Harry will be pink and awkward and easy to wind up for days about how weak he was for the cliche cheap thrill of twanging a suspender strap against Eggsy’s arse. Totally worth it.

But with all in balance, Eggsy is fairly sure nothing will beat a perfect three piece. Maybe his plain navy single breasted. really good aftershave, hair done, everything impeccably just-so, so that Harry can take very possible delight in stripping him down, messing him up, ruining him entirely until Harry's handsome, neat dress-up doll of a boy is a sweaty, breathless mess on his bed.

He wanders off then, in his head, into concocting an entire advent calendar of increasingly silly stripteases. _“Guess what's behind door sixteen? Surprise, it's my dick!”_ and starts laughing.

Harry looks up from sorting through their post and at least partially follows his train of thought.

“You're actually going to do it, aren't you.”

“I might, yeah.”

***

Returning from his only solo shopping trip of the season, Harry unlocks the front door and is greeted by what for a heart stopping moment he thinks is rapid gunfire, except it's not quite loud enough. It’s still alarming, loud and uneven, and Harry works his way by process of elimination through possible threats: the noise is neither explosive nor incendiary. There are no voices, no sounds of a fight or of distress, no alarms have been triggered, nothing other than the sound itself seems to be amiss, so Harry cautiously steps in the door.

“Eggsy?”

“Front room!”

The unbothered response confirms that there's no threat, so Harry re-holsters his weapon and goes to find him.

The noise turns out to be the cacophony of an unrestrained pug gleefully chasing thirty six various sized Perspex baubles as they skitter around on a laminate floor, sliding into table legs and colliding with the skirting board. Considering that the wide eyed, tongue flapping joy on JBs face is one of the most amusing things Harry has seen in a good long while, Eggsy is remarkably unphased, engrossed as he is in slotting together a surprisingly realistic, if unnecessarily large, fake pine tree.

“I see JB’s getting into the spirit of it…”

“He's been doing that for half an hour.”

Harry picks up the crushed plastic tubing, tries to collect some of the decorations and tempt the dog into lying down on his bed before he gives himself some sort of attack. Naturally he chooses a cardboard box of gift wrapping sundries to sit in instead, but Harry has learned to choose his battles where JB is concerned and leaves him happily, loudly trying to crunch the tube enough to grip within the unmapped creases of his face and goes back to see Eggsy’s progress.

He’s done remarkably well. He’s got the tree standong and sorted the new decorations into some sort of order… or, it looks as though he had until the dog decided to help. The wreath is hung, the fire is laid although it’s still too warm to light it, particularly as Eggsy is snuggled into one of his mind bogglingly comprehensive collection of ‘ironic’ Christmas jumpers with the sleeves pushed up to reveal a strangely tantalising glimpse of his forearms, and there's a mug of hot chocolate steaming on the coffee table, probably with a shot of espresso dumped in it. Eggsy’s decorating clearly means business.

Harry can't resist spoiling his concentration. There's something about Eggsy sensibly playing house that just puts the absolute devil in him: if Eggsy is happy to take the mantle of maturity then Harry is free to make his life as difficult as possible for him, to play and be rewarded with Eggsy’s confidence in his status, in his place in their home. Harry's seniority in age and at work means nothing to him, here, and that's never better illustrated than when Eggsy tells him off.

Taking a thick length of tinsel from the pile by the coffee table, harry loops and wraps it around Eggsy’s body, trapping his arms to his sides. For a moment he thinks he might just snap it by flexing and the image makes Harry go embarrassingly weak at the knees, so he yanks on the string and pulls him, so he stumbles and falls into Harry’s body with an adorably grouchy huff.

“Can you not, Harry, I'm try’na…”

“Look what I've got.”

Harry produces the fork of mistletoe from behind his back and dangles it over his head.

“You gonna just stand there holding it?” Eggsy snorts. “Makes sense, grows on fuckin trees don't it? Lanky sod.” He gives him a kiss anyway, quick but with just enough openness for Harry to taste the powdered chocolate drying on the insides of his lips. “Now get off and make yourself useful. And be careful with the berries on that, JB-”

“It’s nylon.”

“You're all class, ain't ya.”

“Eternally.” Harry takes a clear fixing sticker from the pad on the table, sticks it to the stalk of the mistletoe and slaps it above the doorway on his way out of the room. “There, I helped.”

“Are you gonna be like this all Christmas?”

Is he? Is Harry going to be this light, this happy, all the time the house is full of soft sparkling and music, the sound of Eggsy’s grudging, indulgent little chuckle, the smell of warm sugar? He’ll take every second he can get.

“It's quite possible, yes.”

Harry can hear Eggsy scoff-laughing as he runs up the stairs, muttering something conspiratorial to JB no doubt just as he’s out of earshot, and he wonders if he’s ever understood the joy of the season so truly in his life.

In the spirit of that, he changes quickly into casual clothes so that he can go and help out, although how much practical help he really intends to be is already wavering, because any situation in which he is over-enamoured of their domesticity can only be rounded off nicely with the sort of fuck he’s going to suddenly start smiling about halfway through the following afternoon.

It's probably overdue: there's been a definite flirtatious edge to Eggsy’s festive spirit, too. Harry’s pretending he hasn't noticed the red lamé santa pants in a bag in the bottom of the wardrobe because he has a horrible feeling Eggsy will be utterly irresistible in them, however ridiculous they are. Moreso, perhaps, because he'll be flexing about pouting and laughing at himself and doubtless at the entirely exasperated, irrepressible want on Harry's face. And Harry will bury that face in the boy’s arse and not stop until he comes or cries or preferably comes, crying.

Harry goes for jeans, and a cashmere blend long-sleeved top that was a gift from Eggsy… last Christmas? His birthday? No, neither: it was some time at the beginning of the year, Eggsy had insisted it would look good on him and then on buying it because Harry wouldn't give it a second glance of his own accord, and then at home he’d tried it on to appease him - because when had he ever been able to say no - and bugger it, the boy was right. The charcoal grey warms his complexion up, and when Harry checks in the mirror mostly to be sure it’s not too creased from being in the drawer, it sits nicely on his body, its heavy softness clinging over the flat breadth of his chest and sitting in at the waist, not tight but fitted. It's warm and comfortable and It does look good. He’s never sure if the look of triumph Eggsy gets when wears it is because of that or a see, I was right.

He doesn't get that look, or any look when he returns to the living room. Eggsy’s focus and both hands are occupied with trying to unravel a rat’s nest of fairy lights, using his own elbows for leverage and somehow having managed to completely wrap them round his arms, possibly in a deliberate attempt to keep them from tangling back into themselves.

“Lovely. Missing something, I think.” Harry peels the backing off an obnoxiously holographic

star shaped wrapping bow and sticks it on Eggsy’s head, pressing down just momentarily so the tape adheres to his hair before stepping back. “Much better.”

“Fuck's sake” Eggsy blows up at it, but it holds fast. “ I was expecting JB to be the one giving me grief. Take it off.”

“What, this?”

Obtusely, Harry grasps the hem of his top and peels it off in one casual fling of his arm. When he reemerges from the wool to re-settle his glasses he finds Eggsy’s gaze fixed at navel level before making an unhurried journey up his toned stomach - _eyes are up here, sweetheart_ \- over his defined chest and finally making it up to his face.

Eggsy disentangles himself, shrugs off the fairy lights and takes the bow from his head, eyes gone a little dark.

“Have you got something against this tree, Harry, because it ain't gonna get done…”

“I'll have you against it if that's an offer.”

Eggsy snorts. “No it fucking ain't.. Have you seen the prickly bits? Also come off it. Like that's gonna take my weight.”

“Of course it’s not, you utter lump.” It’s heat charged. Harry’s spent many a happy moment describing exactly how turned on he is by the way Eggsy’s filled out, by the thickness of his limbs and the bulk of his muscle, even - especially - the bits that run to softness when he’s not training as hard. “That's my job.” His hands grip low on Eggsy’s waist, ready to lift him.

“Oh Christ.” But he goes onto his toes and springs when Harry pulls him up, a surprisingly effortless dancer’s lift that settles his legs around Harry's hips and their chests together. “Hello.” He smiles against Harry’s mouth, suddenly coquettish and silly. “What's got into you today?”

Harry clasps his own forearms behind Eggsys back, securing him in a comfortable grip as he walks him around the end of the sofa and up against one of the few areas of wall where he won't be speared by holly or the corner of a picture frame. It's an unnecessary effort but Eggsy is always weak for being picked up, carried, thrown around, reminded there's life in the old dog yet, so why simply tip him onto the settee when he can lift him?

“What's got into me is you are beautiful.” From murmuring against his ear it's such an easy, tempting trail to kiss at his jaw bone, onto his neck. “And sweet, and warm, and kind, and generous spirited. And inhumanly fucking gorgeous.” He rolls his hips to press Eggsy into the wall there, unsurprised but pleased by the frisson of arousal when it pushes their mirroring hardness together and leans his upper body back enough to look at him at arm’s length. “Now get this fucking hideous jumper off.”

“Says the man who wears cardigans. Alright, alright.”

He pulls back from kissing him long enough to allow Eggsy to yank his jumper off over his head, dragging over his unstyled hair and leaving it skewed and fluffy. The t-shirt underneath goes with it so instead of cartoon reindeer Harry is suddenly faced with the sculpted perfection of Eggsy’s body and really, those mince pie binges and guilt workouts are doing him nothing but favours.

In lieu of sufficient compliment Harry crashes their mouths together and pushes him back into the wall. Eggsy’s legs cross round his back, his feet against Harry's arse to pull him forwards and his hands fumble for grip before settling: one on Harry's shoulder, splayed with his nails digging in, the other grabbing in his hair, that little pull yanking a sharp fizz of excitement up Harry’s back. Eggsy whimpers a helpless little noise of arousal into his mouth.

Holding his weight up feels delicious, satisfying somehow but the angle is less than ideal for anything but grinding and kissing so Harry pulls Eggsy up into his chest again, leaning back to balance his weight so that he can hold him one armed whilst he clears space to lay him on the writing desk with the other. Eggsy will garrotte him with a string of tinsel if he ever accuses him of swooning, but they both know it happens.

If Harry considers he might be forging ahead a little forcefully, the thought doesn't last long: It’s Eggsy who keeps his back curled and his hips pressed to Harry's, shifting in urgent little thrusts before he's even got his trousers off. Harry's groping hands find the button on Eggsy’s fly whilst he's covering his chest in kisses and he doesn't verbally make a suggestion but Eggsy breathes out “ yeah ” like it's the best idea he's ever heard anyway, looking down at Harry with his eyes wide and challenging, his bottom lip dented by his teeth.

“Shall I take you to bed?” He asks, although he suspects he’s lead the answer, hears it in the rasp of Eggsy’s breathing, sees it in the flicker of his eyes wanting to close.

“No,” Eggsy bites out. “Here.”

Harry Hart has been having sex with men for thirty seven years and has been a special agent for twenty two. The precise culmination of these two specific areas of expertise is that you can never have too much lube. You can never use too much lube, you can never own too much lube and you can never have it stashed in too many places around your house, workplace, pockets, car… Because should you find yourself with your exquisite twenty five year old lover wrapped around your waist, arching his back and begging for it - “ _now, Harry, come on, please...”_ \- you'll thank yourself when you can simply grab a bottle out of seemingly thin air rather than trying to prise yourself from his thick limbs and go on a mood-killing fumble around the house. As it is, it barely takes him the amount of time Eggsy needs to peel his trousers down and shake them off his ankles to find a bottle in a drawer.

Eggsy pulls one leg free from his boxers and swings it back around Harry's waist, pulling him close again. All things considered, his gymnastic flexibility makes itself known a lot less often than Harry might have fantasised about if he'd ever allowed himself, which just keeps it fresh, that little skitter of arousal that goes through his hips when Eggsy twists and splits so effortlessly to get himself fucked better, like his body was made with hedonism aforethought. He's still got his boxers around one calf but that's clearly all the undressing he has the patience for and Harry doesn't blame him in the slightest.

Harry's already slopped a squeeze of lube over his fingers when the smell of peppermint hits him: neither of their favourites, probably why this tube’s been relegated to a living room spot and yet here they are.

“Festive,” says Eggsy, blithely, between breaths, and Harry supposes it is vaguely reminiscent of candy canes although he recalls Eggsy previously having described it as tasting like chewing gum you'd had in your mouth a few minutes too long. He's hardly in the mood to be fussy. It's got a little tingle to it - enough to be concerning if it wasn't supposed to be a selling point, not enough to write home about considering it was - just a cooling prickle at the tips of his fingers. Presumably it couldn’t feel that special in earnest use or it’d be in the bedside table, but the momentary fantasy of Eggsy begging, overcome with need with his nerves set alight, is beautiful.

Of course, Harry can do that by himself if he stops getting lost in admiring the boy. He gives Eggsy’s glistening cock a couple of strokes left handed whilst he works his right between their bodies to dip under his balls and up to tease over his hole.

Eggsy’s skin is feverish velvet, his cock solid and wet even before the lube covers it. Eggsy leaks until he's slippery and dripping almost all the time he's hard, and Harry aches for a taste of that fresh, sweet tang but he cannot do everything at once however badly Eggsy makes him want to. It hits Harry with a jolt straight through the hips though, seeing him straining red and dribbling with excitement at the way Harry touches him: Eggsy was self conscious about it at first but has softened up about considerably seeing how much it turns Harry on. His flesh is impossibly smooth and fair, as if in soft focus, although that could be because Harry’s eyes are fluttering shut with the effort of concentrating through his want. As such, it’s a fumble to get the lube open again and drizzle more onto his cock, down over his balls to where his fingers are rubbing against him.

“ _Shit_ that’s cold.”

“It’s the mint. Here.” Harry swoops down and breathes along a shining trail of it, chuckling when Eggsy gasps and then groans. He keeps teasing with his mouth and the ghost of his breath until the only taste of the peppermint is what’s on his lips, carried across the stripe of hair below Eggsy’s navel, mouthed up over the ridges of his abs and bugger , he really should have dotted a bit of that lube on his nipples. A gentle bite has Eggsy keening just as quickly, or that may be Harry teasing at his arse.

“Oh, get the fuck on with it. What are you waiting for, Christmas?”

Chuckling, Harry strokes at the wrinkle of skin between Eggsy's cheeks with just his slippery middle finger until it twitches, flexes and then he sinks in up to the second knuckle.

Eggsy’s body yields quickly and deliciously, like it's asking. His legs clench around Harry’s sides; Harry presses him down into the desk with bites on the throat that make Eggsy’s breathing go ragged whilst he fingers him open and enjoys every jerk of his muscles in response to the right touches. When he concentrates properly, he can feel his way to the centre of Eggsy’s prostate by the texture under his fingertips, the resistance to his pressing… the way Eggsy moans in his throat doesn't hurt.

Eggsy can't sit up but he pulls Harry down to him, kisses soon given up in favour of biting gently at his ears and panting “there, there, fuck yes” into his hair.

“Is that good?” He doesn't mean for it to come out so smug, in part it’s a genuine question but there comes a point at which Eggsy reacts so wonderfully to him talking at all that he doesn't have to think before he speaks. The favour isn't returned, although the frantic nod he feels against the side of his face instead is encouraging enough. Harry thinks absently about just sucking Eggsy’s cock with his fingers inside him because he's obviously enjoying that, but by the same token if he's taking the stretch so well, loving it so much, it would be a shame not to fuck him.

Harry's cock throbs as if to remind him that his selfless intentions may be misplaced, and then he has no choice in the matter. He's slicked up and pressing the head of his cock against Eggsy’s hole so suddenly it shocks the breath out of both of them.

After the first push into that searing grip, it’s it an easy glide. Harry keeps his hips close, rocking gently: the drag out of the sucking heat is more effort than the push back in, and each thrust pulls a shower of scalding sparks from his spine through his stomach, through his balls, right to the tip of his cock.

Eggsy is soft and responsive, comfortable flat on his back to let Harry move him. The skin of his thighs grows slippery under Harry’s hands, tense and trembling; his fat cock slaps against his belly on every stroke, and Harry thinks he could come from the sight of him if he let himself. He's spoiled with Eggsy, too overwhelmed to ever enjoy all of him at once, every sense overindulged. He can't bear to think about the wet heat, the strange icy tingle to the lube that makes something in his stomach bloom and ripple, or he won't last long enough to savour him.

Eggsy writhes, shoulders pressing back into the desk as his back curls, mouth open, cheeks bright pink and fuck, he looks so young like that, so pretty, and he's keening high in the back of his throat like he wants more but can't bear to speak.

“Darling.” Harry slows, bends down and kisses him. “What do you need?”

There's no verbal answer., just a biting kiss, then Eggsy drops his legs down, lets Harry slide from him and pushes himself up from the desk. Before Harry can ask where he wants him, Eggsy turns, spreads his feet apart and folds himself over the surface, presenting his arse and dipping his back.

Desire hisses and boils in Harry like hot coals dropped into the pit of his stomach. He should probably use the pause to say something - anything - but he just tops up on lube and takes what's on offer as quickly as he can coordinate himself for. He's a little beyond coherence, occasionally hears himself grunting with need like some sort of rutting animal but he notes with hot pride that Eggsy is too gone to notice.

The extra slick means he can thrust faster, quick shallow movements that only pull him back and forth by an inch or two, rubbing him tightly across the exact spot Eggsy needs him. Bliss fires out across every nerve; he fights the urge to ram in to the hilt until he's more or less bouncing off Eggsy’s arse. It seems to be about two thirds in that's making him make that beautiful noise, so that's what he'll give him, for as long as he wants it, or at least for as long as he can.

Harry yanks over a chair to put his knee on, keeping that exact angle steady and giving it all he’s got. Eggsy gives him a strangled groan in answer and lowers his head onto his folded arms. The grip of his body is heaven. Eggsy is flushed and shining with sweat, bent over and whimpering little moans of need on every other thrust, pitch getting higher, a sure sign he’s getting close, and Harry is riveted as much to the sight of him like that as the impossible perfection of the feel of him.

Harry lets go of his right hip and reaches down to give him his hand to thrust into, ready to get them both off, but Eggsy flaps and then holds up a tensely splayed hand at him: _wait._

 _He's going to come without it_.

Harry can’t process that right now, can’t dare to hope but he takes his hold on Eggsy’s hips again, careful not to dig his nails in however hard his fingertips push, so there’s no sharpness to distract him. He focuses purely on keeping his speed up, making sure his thrusts hit the exact same spot and his relentless, torturous accuracy is rewarded with a long, drawn out whine that only breaks when Eggsy hauls a breath in and Harry just watches in awe. Watches Eggsy pull tight and slam a hand into the desk. Watches him, eyes screwed up shut, hair plastered to his face with sweat and the whispered chant of _fuck, fuck, oh fuck_ as he tenses more still, draws right up, his hands ball into white knuckles, livid fists on the surface of the desk and he comes down the front of the drawers.

Harry slips from him in a rush, takes himself in hand and can't aim, doesn't even have time to get his eyes to refocus before he's coming over Eggsy’s arse and the backs of his thighs.

It takes him a few moments to stop his hips bucking forward to thrust into his hand even though it starts to hurt; he releases the death grip he’s got on Eggsy’s hip with the other and realises blearily that, in spite of his best efforts, he’s drawn blood with his nails, but Eggsy doesn’t seem to have noticed. He's still pressed flat to the top of the desk, his back heaving with each breath, legs shaking.

In a gradual, stiff motion, Harry curls over him to press comforting kisses between Eggsy’s shoulder blades and feel him laughing breathlessly through the shuddering of his ribcage.

“Ugh. Don't suppose you've got anything sensible like tissues stashed in that drawer?”

Honestly, he isn't sure, but there is something ridiculously, filthily wonderful about having to navigate the dripping pearly strands of Eggsy’s come to open it. Packing tape, a deck of cards, sewing kit, hunting knife, tin of buttons and ah, yes. Harry’s obviously had a moment of uncharacteristic foresight at some point but he doesn't remember it.

“My love, I can do you one better than that.” He slaps the packet of babywipes down on the desk next to him, and wrestles one out with scrabbling fingertips. A bit dry, but who knows how long they've been there?

Eggsy snorts a surprised laugh at him. “You old romantic.” His voice is rough and it sends a happy, tired shiver up through Harry’s core. “If this is the effect me getting a bit Christmassy has on you, you wait til I get round to decorating the bedroom.”

“Well you've made a lovely job of that desk. And you're… glistening quite prettily yourself. We should just leave you there.”

“You are actually disgusting.” Eggsy manages to straighten up enough to shoot Harry one of the most old fashioned looks he's ever seen. “You ain't right, Harry.”

almost delirious, Harry is resolutely undeterred.

 

***

The bedroom remains largely undecorated, save for a couple of cinnamon scented red candles and the fact that JB’s gray and brown bed is swapped out for a red one with little candy canes printed all over it, which he refuses to sleep in, so in that sense it makes no difference at all to the old one. Harry smooths new sheets. They're not themed, mercifully, but they're crisp and thick and feel wonderfully indulgent as he turns the bed down.

There's a twinkly ringing noise from the en suite, and then the sort of mock cough for attention which is not even pretending to be genuine.

Eggsy stands in the doorway in a pair of tight green cotton trunks with “Jingle my bells” picked out in glittery gold, hip cocked and lip curled in wry amusement as he waits - waits a while, in all honesty, not that he looks like he minds in the slightest - for Harry to make eye contact. He’s stunning, it's a desperate shame their chosen profession doesn’t allow him to pursue catalogue modeling, or porn. Same difference, when he looks like that, as far as Harry imagines most people would be concerned.

He’s admiring the artfully casual sweep of Eggsy’s hair, the cut of his muscles down into the flat elastic of his gleefully tacky boxers, when Harry realises three things.

He realises that the 'Jingle My Bells' monstrosities are not, in fact, the same horrific shiny pants he spotted tucked away earlier and that there may be something of a theme about to emerge.

He realises the date: it is December 13th and that means there is every possibility, knowing Eggsy’s sense of humour, that he is staring down the barrel of some sort of Twelve Days of Christmas Pants type set up. He can only hope the abominable metallic things he caught sight of earlier are as bad as it gets because actually, the green looks good on Eggsy, despite the fact “jingling” is not a verb he wishes to apply to any part of his anatomy.

Harry also realises, not for the first time, that all his Christmases came at once, one February afternoon outside a custody suite in Holborn.

 


	2. May your days be merry and bright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gorgeous illustration by French-Unicorn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As an extra special Christmas treat initially for Emphysematous, as it was her gift fic, but absolutely for the fandom, I got into a little swapsie with the wonderful French-Unicorn. Check out her work on both Tumblr and Patreon! The result was this absolutely gorgeous image and yet another fic on the way from me in the New Year. 
> 
> A very merry midwinter to all of you.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/141907462@N08/38493007574/in/dateposted-public/)

  
_He doesn't get that look, or any look when he returns to the living room. Eggsy’s focus and both hands are occupied with trying to unravel a rat’s nest of fairy lights, using his own elbows for leverage and somehow having managed to completely wrap them round his arms, possibly in a deliberate attempt to keep them from tangling back into themselves._  
  
_“Lovely. Missing something, I think.” Harry peels the backing off an obnoxiously holographic_  
  
_star shaped wrapping bow and sticks it on Eggsy’s head, pressing down just momentarily so the tape adheres to his hair before stepping back. “Much better.”_  
  
_“Fuck's sake” Eggsy blows up at it, but it holds fast. “ I was expecting JB to be the one giving me grief. Take it off.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Did anybody else get "what're you waiting for, Christmas?" Whenever they dallied about anything or is that another cockney childhood thing?
> 
> Thank you for reading. I am as always grateful for your feedback, here or on tumblr under randomactsofviolence


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